


the fences in between

by holistic_details



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:10:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holistic_details/pseuds/holistic_details
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don't believe it.” Abigail laughs in pure relief. “Stuck in a world where everyone and their ferret is a hockey player, and still Claudia messes with power grids.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the fences in between

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellabell](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellabell/gifts).



The day starts with breakfast.

 

Pete's outdone himself this week, Abigail thinks, digging into her eggs. It's early enough in the morning that the July breeze is still cool, and she sighs, leaning back in her chair.

 

“Isn't this so much better than that cereal we were eating before?” she asks.

 

“There is nothing wrong with my cereal,” he says immediately.

 

“Except that it was pure sugar and we were eating every single day,” Claudia tosses back. Pete makes a face like _what's your point_ and then Claudia does toss a bread roll at him.

 

He catches it in his mouth and his eyes go wide in surprise. With a sound of pure joy, he leaps off his chair to do a victory lap around the living room, and disappears into the kitchen. Trailer barks after him, tail wagging.

 

Myka mutters something that sounds like _child_ and hides a grin in her coffee mug.

 

“Hey, Myka,” Steve says, looking up. “I can't watch Pete tonight, I forgot it was my turn to do the grocery shopping.”

 

“That's fine,” Myka says. “Tomorrow, though? I have inventory all this week, and he gets really antsy in the summer.”

 

“Definitely,” Steve replies.

 

Abigail pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. “Pete?” she asks.

 

“You know,” Myka hisses, eyes darting over to where Trailer has joined in Pete's celebration. “ _Little_ Pete.”

 

Could she be talking about – ? Abigail thinks, tilting her head at Myka. No. Pete and Myka aren't together. Besides, what a weird thing to call a –

 

“He's really a lot of fun,” Steve says to Abigail, smiling. “Hyper, but fun.”

 

“Um,” she says, and Claudia takes pity on her.

 

“Myka named her ferret Pete,” she says, swallowing the last of her muffin. “After Pete.”

 

“That makes so much more sense,” Abigail says quietly, and Steve laughs at the relief on her face.

 

“I'm still surprised you have a ferret, Myka,” Abigail says, forking up the last of her eggs. “You never really seemed like a pet person.”

 

Myka rolls her eyes and laughs, pushing back from the table. “I managed to pick up the wishing kettle my first day at the Warehouse. It was terrifying.”

 

“Are we talking about the ferret?” Pete asks, sliding back into his chair, loaded down with bacon crisp from the stove. “Still have no name?

 

Abigail looks up from her plate. “But you just said the ferret's name was Pete,” she says, and Myka shoots her a glare.

 

“Five years later!” Claudia yells, pumping both fists in the air. “It's finally happened.”

 

Pete is sporting the biggest grin Abigail has ever seen. “So, Mykes,” he says.

 

Myka groans loudly, and covers her eyes with one hand. “Go ahead,” she mumbles. “Make the jokes.”

 

“Naw,” Pete says. “I won't.”

 

Myka peeks out of her fingers cautiously. “You won't?”

 

“What's there to joke about? You only named your beloved pet after your beloved part – ” Myka hits his chest with an open hand, and he howls. Beside her, Claudia dissolves into giggles, and Steve's shoulders shake as he does a bad job of continuing to eat. Abigail puts down her scone, more confused than ever, when her phone rings.

 

She excuses herself quietly, not sure if anyone's noticed, still teasing Myka about the grand reveal.

 

It's the DMV, calling for yet another confirmation for her address change, and Abigail rolls her eyes all the way to her bedroom. She has to repeat her new address five times in three minutes before she hangs up.

 

Abigail sighs and lets herself flop dramatically back onto the bed, in the privacy of her own room. The sun is warm where it hits her bare feet, and she wriggles her toes against the cold hardwood, enjoys the contrast.

 

She wishes someone had told her that Myka's ferret's name was a secret.

 

She sighs again, turns onto her side. There's a small painting leaning beneath the window, a watercolour landscape of the backyard. It's been there since she came to the bed and breakfast.

 

Her room used to be Leena's. Abigail knows. Even if Mrs Frederic hadn't told her, she would have figured it out from the looks she'd gotten to the first evening here. More specifically, the looks she hadn't gotten, the downcast, flicked-away eyes that wouldn't meet her own.

 

She wonders how they mourned her. Are mourning her.

 

Abigail hasn't quite decided who she should ask about Leena. It feels oddly impersonal, to ask one of the Regents to explain, and Mrs Frederic –

 

She studies the stucco on the ceiling and sees again the weariness in Mrs Frederic's eyes the first – and last – time Mr Kosan had brought up the subject. She wonders how close they had been. She is almost certain that Leena had been the Keeper before her. (The Regents are not good at explaining themselves, but Abigail had followed them to South Dakota anyway because – because Abigail lives by _seeing is believing,_ because the Warehouse had intrigued her, because the Warehouse still intrigues her.

 

Because she wants to help people again.)

 

Something explodes, and Abigail's eyes snap wide open.

 

For a second she sits still, listening intently for anything. Any sound, any indication that the sound was nothing more serious than Artie setting down the Fish-feeding equipment carelessly. Then the gravity of the situation slams into her and she's fumbling with her doorknob before she remembers to take a breath, cursing her inaction all the way down the stairs. She only just stops herself from skidding into the living room, braced for the worst.

 

From his chair at the breakfast table, Pete laughs. Abigail blinks, but can't quite relax just yet.

  
“Guys?” she ventures, and all eyes move to her.

 

Steve is the first to break out in a quick smile. “Hey, Choster,” he says easily, and it's entirely possible he doesn't see Abigail's violent double-take, because just then a tall man with smiling eyes and Claudia's smirk comes out of the kitchen with a platter of croissants in his hands. He goes around the table, making a point of offering Pete and Myka croissants last, and Abigail's eye is caught by a flash of colour down below.

 

“Why the hell is the dog dressed like that?”

 

Trailer barks like he knows he's being talked about, and tilts his head up for scratches. Abigail obliges, staring bemusedly at the purple and white sweater Trailer is happily sporting. “Univille Strikers,” she reads, and looks up quizzically at the table.

 

“Artie made a matching one for the ferret. Complete with hockey stick.” Pete says, holding his phone out. “See?” His other hand is reaching sneakily for the last croissant, but the stranger deftly reaches in and pops it into his mouth.

 

“Who _are_ you?” Abigail blurts, and the man reacts as though struck. The only one who has ever gotten in between Pete, Myka, and the last croissant was Claudia, and Abigail will never forget the shade of pale she turned barely two seconds later, and she'd put it right back, mumbling something about a long night and Red Bull overload messing with her mind.

 

“Very funny, Choster,” he mutters, and sinks into – there's an extra chair. There is definitely an extra chair there at the breakfast table and Abigail tries not to let the surprise show on her face, tries to think.

 

“Cho-ster,” Abigail says, and her voice raises at the end of the word, more question than statement.

 

Myka raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. “I'm gonna go get in an early skate,” she says. “Team warm-up starts at eight. If you're late, you're doing suicides tomorrow, not negotiable. Pete. Claudia. And your brother, too.” She eyes all three in turn and they groan.

 

Brother, Abigail thinks. I knew it. But where – ?

 

“And Pete,” Myka calls over her shoulder. “I found your mouthguards in the trunk of my car.”

 

“I've been looking for those!”

 

“When aren't you looking for those?” Steve asks, and scrapes his chair backward. He follows Myka out into the hallway, waving back once. Both Myka and Steve grab large duffel bags from the hallway and Abigail bites her lip when she sees them pick up hockey sticks, too.

 

Abigail cycles through several thoughts in rapid succession, from _do they think they're hockey players_ to Cho-ster _, seriously_ to _I need to get to the Warehouse and neutralize whatever this is_ to _do they think_ I'm _a hockey player?_

 

“Hey,” Abigail says, trying for nonchalant. “I'm gonna head out. For a drive. Uh, so." Abigail points weakly after the doorway Myka and Steve disappeared through.

 

Pete grins outright. “Aw, Choster, c'mon. You don't want to ride with the Pete-ster?”

 

Abigail rolls her eyes and it feels, briefly, like nothing has changed.

 

“I'm gonna head out at seven-fifty,” he continues, then winces. “Don't tell Mykes, she'll yell at me for cutting it so close. Can you wait 'til then? I think Artie left doughnuts here yesterday.”

 

“Yesterday? They're long gone by now, then,” Abigail says dismissively, then balks. “Wait, you – we're all going?”

 

Pete squints briefly. “Where else would we warm up for a hockey game?” he asks slowly. “That's kinda what rinks are for.”

 

“The Warehouse isn't an ice rink!”

 

“No, it's not,” Pete agrees seriously. “It's the Holy Grail of ice rinks _;_ I heard that the bleachers seat twenty-five thousand people and the ice rink is Olympic-size, but _better_.”

 

She slips away when he starts waxing lyrical about the way the Zambo-something smoothes the ice in the Warehouse, and resolves to drive herself.

 

*

 

It turns out they won't be practising at the Warehouse, but a small indoor ice rink about a mile away from the Warehouse. She gets there with time to spare, and parks carefully in the designated spot for hockey players – which is the biggest indicator of an artifact's influence, Abigail thinks, because Univille barely has designated parking for its police officers. She exits the car and immediately has a microphone shoved into her face.  She jerks back, catches herself against the car.

 

 

“Ms. Cho, can you tell us how you're feeling going into the game later tonight?” There's a little crowd behind the man, all reporters, all with slightly manic looks in their eyes.

 

“Uh,” Abigail says. Breathe, she tells herself, then calls upon her teenage theatre club acting skills. “Uh, well. You know. It's going to be a good game.”

 

She has no idea who they're playing against.

 

“Of course,” begins another reporter. “You must know this is the first time that the two co-ed teams in the NHL are meeting in such a high stakes game.”

 

“Of course,” she repeats. The reporter makes it sound like a big deal. Is it a big deal? Is the National Hockey League in the real world co-ed?

 

“And how are some of your more famous players dealing with the nerves?”

 

“You know that this game is going to be well-televised? Banger, how's she holding up?”

 

"Will we be seeing one of her trademark snap shots this evening?"

 

“Is Banger especially uptight right before big games?”

 

Who the hell is Banger, Abigail thinks, then politely excuses herself. (If she steps on a few reporters' toes, well – Banger doesn't sound like a _nice_ nickname.)

 

Artie intercepts her before she realizes she has no idea where to go.

 

“Locker room is on the right,” he says, and Abigail has to ask him to repeat himself because she cannot remember the last time she saw him wear a suit – tie and cuff links and all. She has half a mind to check if his shoes have been polished, then decides against it, mostly because he's already ushering her towards the locker room.

 

Steve greets her as she walks inside. She replies absently, nose crinkling at the smell.

 

“If it isn't our favourite goalie,” Claudia's brother – she really needs to find out what his name is – says, and Abigail balks again.

 

“Goal – what?” she blurts. Thankfully, both men laugh, and after a second she does too, to keep up appearances.

 

(The last thing she needs is for someone to suspect that she isn't who she is supposed to be. A few months ago, she would have sent herself to – herself, her psychiatrist self – if she'd met someone who started talking about a magical warehouse, with artifacts that were turning government agents into hockey players.)

 

Pete and Myka enter right behind her, but only Myka is wearing the purple and white jersey. Abigail moves quickly out of their way. “The fans love you,” Pete says, gesturing expansively at a bored Myka. “Banger, the Strikers' star center! You win so many face-offs people write poems about it!”

 

Myka is Banger? Abigail thinks. Why is Myka Banger? What is a Banger?

 

"And, oh man," Pete continues. "The shots you take on net are _huge._ Snap shots and backhands and shorthands all over the place. You just bang 'em right in!"

 

Bang 'em – Banger – that is the least creative nickname I have ever heard, Abigail thinks.

 

 

“Did you actually get here before you were supposed to, just to nag me about this?” Myka doesn't wait for a response, just sighs. “I lose to the Coyotes' centers, Pete. Without fail.”

 

“That game was like three hundred years ago,” Pete says dismissively.

 

Abigail knows Myka is rolling her eyes even though her face is momentarily obscured by the helmet she's removing. She wrestles it off and her curls immediately poof outward in a spectacular display of helmet hair.

 

“Met the press outside,” Abigail offers. “They only wanted to talk about you. She smiles sympathetically at Myka.

 

“See?” Pete cries, pointing.

 

“We'll talk about this after team practice,” Myka says, and takes off her jersey, and rubs absently at a bruise on her shoulder. Now that her jersey is off, Abigail can clearly see the bulky red and black shoulder pads, and she winces. She's never kept up with ice hockey, but her roommate in college had been a huge New York Islanders fan, and she clearly remembers passing by the TV and hearing the dull thump of bodies hitting boards at high speeds.

 

Pete stops rummaging around in his pocket, eyebrows raised high at Myka's shoulder. “Rough practice?”

 

“Or did you and Captain Wells have one of your famous _tête_ –à– _têtes_?” Claudia's brother pipes up. Steve looks up from tying his skates, the hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

 

“A friendly competition is not called a _tête_ –à– _tête,_ Josh ,” Myka says, and Abigail sighs. Finally, a name. Claudia enters the locker room, then, all dressed up like the rest of them. In fact, Abigail is the only one not even remotely ready. She fumbles around behind her, then freezes as she comes across a locker with her name taped on it. It opens to reveal several bottles of Gatorade, and more padded apparel than she knows what to do with.

 

“No way, Switzy,” Pete says, and Abigail groans internally, attention back to the conversation at hand. Nicknames. Will she be expected to use nicknames? “I mean, the Coyotes are staying all the way in Featherhead. Wells'd have to drive all the way down here extra super early, and they're already scheduled for a warm-up at 10.”

 

“Totally,” Claudia agrees. “I mean, Miss Seventeen would need an extra special reason to get here to unnecessarily early, right? And she doesn't have one, right?”

 

Abigail turns to see Claudia just barely biting down on a grin.

 

“Double suicides for both of you tomorrow,” Myka orders, but she's a little pink around the cheeks.

 

“Whatever you say, Mykes. Heads or tails?” Pete asks, handing Myka a quarter.

 

“Tails. And we really need to get a proper system for this,” Myka mutters, before flipping the coin.

 

“This _is_ our system,” Pete says, and rummages around in his locker for another jersey when the coin comes up tails.

 

Myka claps him on the back, then addresses the locker room at large. “Suit up, guys. The Coyotes are our biggest competition, and you know that you need to bring it. Practice hard – ”

 

“Play hard,” the locker room choruses. Myka slips on the jersey, taking special care to adjust the C over her chest. She smiles when she catches Abigail's eye. She heads out the door, Josh and Steve following immediately, but Pete takes a second longer to wrestle his jersey – with an A on it, Abigail notices – over his head and fumble around in his locker for a helmet.

 

Did they just flip a coin for a jersey with a C on it, Abigail wonders. What the hell does C mean? She takes her phone out of her pocket and waits impatiently for wifi connection. The internet is vast, she reassures herself. There should be some sort of Ice Hockey for Dummies PDF file she can download.

 

Predictably, the wifi is slow and Abigail frets as she waits for her browser to load. She's still adjusting to her Keeper powers; she needs to be close to the Warehouse to access its memories, and find out what is causing this mess. She'd like Mrs Frederic's help in doing it, but she has no idea where Mrs Frederic could be. It's difficult to imagine the steel implacability of the Caretaker in a place that stinks of old hockey socks and sweat. (Which you would think would be the same thing, but no. Abigail is going to fix this mess and then she is going to make everyone take at least three showers.)

 

Abigail feels eyes on her, and looks up to find Claudia grinning. “I love all the press,” she says happily. “No one can believe the Stanley Cup playoffs are starting in the middle of nowhere, South Dakota!”

 

“Stanley Cup,” she repeats, and her voice tilts high at the end of the word. "Playoffs?"

 

Claudia fairly beams. “Yeah, dude! We're bringing the Cup home!” She holds up her hand for a high five. Abigail only notices when she catches the movement of her lowering her arm.

 

“Hey.” Her voice is quiet and a note of seriousness finally creeps in. “You nervous?”

 

“I – yeah.” It's the truth, anyway. “I guess I am.”

 

“That's cool,” Claudia says, earnestness radiating from her across the bench. “Pete's nervous, too. You can tell because he literally won't shut up.”

 

Abigail chews on the bottom of her lip. I'm not a goalie, she wants to say. I've never stepped foot on ice before. I'll let you down.

 

“Look," Claudia says. "Steve and Josh have got your back, all right? You tell 'em what to do, they'll do it.” She sighs then. “Um, we're not – used to you, yet. But that's okay, okay? It's fine because Artie says that the three of you have chemistry, and our defense was a freaking fortress for the first half of the game against the Rangers last week, wasn't it? You guys were on point – in the first half, at least.” She takes a breath. “Look, Leena clinched us a playoff spot, for the first time since – forever, actually – but she's hurt now and who knows if she'll ever come back, and we need you.”

 

Abigail doesn't respond; can't.

 

“Want me to help you suit up?” Claudia asks brightly, and Abigail nods.

 

*

 

She catches up with Steve after team practice (which had gone _terribly_ , she'd let in almost every puck, but no one had seemed too worried. She had no idea why until Josh rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, something about superstitious players, and Claudia had countered with “If goalies practice bad, they game good”, which – that's not even English. She's never come across an artifact this strange.) and gets right to the point.

 

“Ask me if I've ever played hockey before this practice,” she demands.

 

Steve hesitates, but dutifully repeats the question.

 

“No,” she says firmly, and knows by the shock on his face that his lie detector powers have carried over to this awful hockey world.

 

A lot of sputtering and confusion later, she corrals him into a quiet hallway and explains the bare bones of the situation: that she needs to go to the Warehouse – the actual Warehouse, not the rink that they've been practising in; that there is an object she needs to find to reverse what happened, and get everything back to how it's supposed to be.

 

"The way it's supposed to be?" Steve asks, brow furrowed. “Look, I _am_ a hockey player. I mean, the NHL has been my dream since I was old enough to know what hockey was.” He runs a hand over his head, and frowns down at Abigail. “You might be telling the truth, but I am, too.”

 

“This is your truth,” Abigail agrees. “But it's not mine.”

 

Steve absorbs that as well as can be expected.

 

“The Warehouse is closed until just before the game,” he says, dropping his hand back down to his side. “The last time they opened early, a group of kids got in and vandalized some of the room with graffiti. They've got heavy security until six in the evening.” He holds his hands out. "There's no way we can get to the Warehouse."

 

Abigail manages a half smile. “Never say never.”

 

*

 

They sneak past security and chart a path into the Warehouse. (It involves skintight sweaters, an incident with the neutralizer station in aisle 3, and the less said about the entire thing the better, frankly.)

 

(Steve seems unsurprised by the fact that the Warehouse really is a hockey arena, but Abigail has to work to swallow her panic. An area at least fifteen aisles long and six aisles across has been converted into an ice rink, complete with seats and various food stands.

 

It's fine, she tells herself. The real Warehouse is still _here_ , even if _here_ is a storage closet on the far east corner of the arena portion of the Warehouse. There are aisles missing, there have to be, to make room for the rink, but she can't think about that right now.)

 

“Think,” she mutters, pacing down Aisle Martine-05. She swats Steve's hand away from Walt Disney's paintbrush, gives him a warning glare. “Think, think, think!” Hockey artifact, obviously. Very obvious. Too obvious?

 

There are three full aisles in the Warehouse dedicated to hockey. (Mostly Canadian retrievals. She is going to put off visiting her cousins in Ontario for a good long while.)

 

Steve puts a hand on her forearm, and Abigail looks up, surprised.

 

“Breathe,” he advises, and Abigail does, deeply and slowly. She places both hands on the aisle in front of her, and the Warehouse remembers –

 

Flashes of the city of Montreal, black and white and outdoor rinks, snow falling and twenty men on ice, skating and rushing by one another and everything increasing in tempo as the clock ticks down the third period, the passes getting more frantic, McGill university sweaters in the audience, cheering, victory, finally victory and then, the final triumph, –

 

“The Carnival Cup!”

 

“Hey,” Steve says, surprised. “They have that here?”

 

“Yup,” Abigail says, and wishes developing Keeper powers included a mental inventory of the Warehouse.

 

“That was pretty much the first Stanley Cup,” Steve says excitedly. “It was won by one of Montreal's universities, uh – ”

 

“McGill,” Abigail answers absently, typing into one of the artifact locators at the end of the aisle. Aisle Tibet-98, the screen reads, and Abigail grins.

 

“Yeah!” Steve says. “In 1883. Man, I can't wait to tell Claudia. Is it real?”

 

“Everything is real here,” Abigail replies, then freezes. Voices travel down the aisle.

 

“Cho – I mean, Abigail. If we get caught they might suspend us,” Steve says, pulling at her shirt. “ _No one_ is allowed in before the game.”

 

“All right,” Abigail says, thinking quickly. “There's no way we can get to the artifact right now. We – we can come back later."

 

“We can? How? When?”

 

“I – don't know. But let's start by keeping me out of the game for as long as possible.”

 

 

*

 

Abigail's plan is met with dead silence.

 

“That's – an idea,” Josh says finally, voice strained.

 

“That's crazy _,_ ” Myka says bluntly.

 

“That is what we need to beat them,” Abigail says, trying for an even voice. Beside her, Steve nods vigorously.

 

“You might have a point,” Pete says.

 

“What?” Myka says.

 

“What?” Steve repeats, and Abigail elbows him.

 

“You want us to take out our goalie for the first power play of the game? You can't –” Artie doesn't finish his sentence, just glares at Pete.

 

“Yeah, I do. More forwards on ice, more opportunity. They won't be expecting it, they won't know what to do.” Pete taps a marker on the bench.

 

“They'll know to put the puck in the back of our empty net!”

 

“We won't let them have the chance,” Steve says quickly.

 

“They'll do a half line change, call out their fourth line guys, and pummel us while Wells or Martin scores on our unguarded net,” Myka says flatly.

 

Was that even English, Abigail thinks.

 

“The Coyotes don't do well, confused,” Steve says.

 

“Neither do I,” Abigail mutters.

 

Steve grins at her, a quick inside joke, and it almost makes her feel better. “That's how they lost to the Bruins last week,” he continues. "They were literally too confused to play properly."

 

Artie frowns like he might be considering the idea but doesn't want to admit it. "What, you want us to take Myka out on the power play, just to really confuse them?"

 

“What. No!” Myka says.

 

Pete looks thoughtful. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “Wells is very, like, – ”

 

“Cerebral,” Myka finishes. “But this is an awful idea.”

 

“It'd really make the fans happy if we got a goal like that,” Claudia says. "It'd be like we were making fun of the Coyotes, like we can get goals on them easy, without our goalie and without our captain."

 

“They'd be happier if we got a goal at all,” Myka retorts, but Artie is already drawing lines on a white board.

 

 

*

 

The moment she skates out onto the ice is – less frightening than she'd expect, actually. Or at least that's what she's telling herself. Fake it til you can focus enough to skate in a straight line.

 

Pete was right, she thinks, lining up with her teammates. The arena is gigantic but she can still pick out individual faces. The crowd is a sea of green and grey – Coyote colours – and they roar so loudly Abigail briefly wishes that she'd brought earplugs.

 

Men in black and white stripes – referees and linesmen, she remembers, from her frantic few minutes with Wikipedia – line up. Myka and the Coyote captain – a woman with black hair tied up in a ponytail, her helmet in her hand – shake hands. They exchange a few words, skate easily back to their lines. A whistle is blown, and Abigail reminds herself to breathe.

 

Pete smiles briefly at Abigail before she skates back to the goal. “I've got a good feeling about this game,” he shouts, and Abigail smiles back shakily.

 

“Remember the plan! Keep the puck out of our zone until we get a power play.” Myka yells, and everyone skates into position.

 

*

 

They get a power play three minutes into the game, and the puck has stayed at least five feet away from her at all times.

 

Abigail doesn't relax until she's on the bench, and then she starts shaking. But Myka is right behind her, and she can hear the confusion of the crowd, and she takes a deep breath. Just wait, she tells herself. You just need to wait.

 

“You should let me out there,” Myka says, gloved hands wrapped around her stick. Artie shakes his head, and Myka scowls. She watches a Coyote with determined intensity. It's number 17, Abigail realizes, the opposing team's captain. She has the puck, passes it down the ice, and Abigail watches her throw her hands in the air when the referee blows the whistle.

 

"Iced the puck," Myka mumbles, and Abigail finds herself patting her on the back, hard and brief like she's seen Pete and Josh do it.

 

“We have a plan,” Artie says, turning back to them.

 

“I can do it, Artie," Myka says. "I can get us an early goal. We _need_ an early goal. Especially against the Coyotes –”

 

“No,” Artie says, and they all turn when someone calls his name. “I'll be right back,” he says. “Let's hope they can't kill the penalty for a few more minutes, and you _stay here_.”

 

Myka waits until Artie is gone before speaking again. “Switzy,” Myka barks, and waves until she catches Josh's attention. He skates towards them, and Myka jumps out over the bench, prompting a stray cheer from one of the fans seated behind them.

 

“Thought Artie wanted me to play until at least the second period,” he says genially to Abigail, taking Myka's place on the bench. “Hey, where _is_ – ” he cranes his head, and nearly spits out his mouthguard in surprise when he can't find Artie there. He turns back to Abigail, offers a hesitant, confused smile.

 

“Artie might be busy for a while,” Abigail says, trying to smile back. Maybe if she says it convincingly enough it will be true.

 

“Where is Bering?” Artie shouts, loud enough for the fans to have noticed, and for the sake of the hockey team she's currently playing for, she hopes no one from the media is directly behind them. (Abigail has no real idea how hockey reporting works, but if it's anything like soccer, then pictures of unhappy coaches cast doubt on the cohesiveness of the team.

 

She doesn't know why she cares. This team isn't real. None of this is real. She has to keep reminding herself, and that worries her.)

 

“She subbed me out,” Josh offers guilelessly. Redundantly, as it turns out. Artie is already shouting at the ice, knuckles white on the board, but no one is paying attention to him, Abigail knows, because the fans behind her are screaming. She turns her attention to the ice and catches her breath. Myka is streaking down the rink, the opposing team at her heels.

 

They watch, spellbound, as Myka sidesteps a player – number 17 again – is forced diagonally over the ice with 17 on her tail, and shoots the puck into the net with a backhand that commentators will call "filthy”, in tones of greatest admiration.

 

The home crowd cheers, and Pete races to Myka, nearly knocks her to the ice in celebration.

 

Abigail's breath leaves her in a rush and she yells excitedly, drowned out by celebrating teammates and the thumping of sticks on the bench. Only Artie is quiet. Abigail elbows Josh hard in the ribs, and he manages a large smile, just in time for it to appear on the big screens hanging from the ceiling.

 

Myka subs herself out immediately, is greeted with high fives and big grins on the bench. She sits heavily next to Abigail and motions for Josh to get back in. Then she looks at Abigail, and Abigail realizes with a sinking stomach that she's expected to get back out there.

 

That's when the lights go out, and Abigail wastes no time.

 

“I'm going to go see what happened,” she nearly shouts, and makes her escape in the confusion.

 

*

 

Ice skates are terrible, and if she ever has to wear a pair again, it will be too soon. She eventually has to sit down on the floor to take them off, like a child.

 

Skates off, socks askew, she races through doors until she's twisting open the closet that leads to the Warehouse proper.

 

Thankfully the Warehouse still seems well lit – and she really needs to ask Steve how he managed to blow out the lights around the rink; she'd thought his signal would be something more along the lines of –

 

There is a large wall of hockey equipment where Aisle Martine-09 should be. Abigail runs over to it, and nearly bites through her own lip when she realizes that the helmets, and hockey sticks, and shoulder pads aren't artifacts in disguise, they are helmets, and hockey sticks, and shoulder pads and the Warehouse is disappearing.

 

She runs.

 

The zipline would be useless, and she can't remember where the Artie of her world put the scooter. There is no other way, so she runs.

 

Aisle Tibet-98 is not very far away, but every step burns, thanks to nerves and heavy ice hockey padding.

 

The Carnival Cup is at the opposite end of the aisle, flopping wildly on the ground. At least there's a neutralizer station is nearby, Abigail thinks, and falls to the floor to dodge a stray blast of energy.

 

She's up in no time, running the length of the aisle in a few seconds, and wrestling the jersey off her head. She wraps the Carnival Cup in it. From there, it's a quick jog to the neutralizing station, and an unceremonious dumping of artifact into goo.

 

Sparks fly, and Abigail's phone buzzes. She looks down to find a new text message from Claudia reading, _did it work?_

 

“I don't believe it.” Abigail laughs in pure relief. “Stuck in a world where everyone and their ferret is a hockey player, and still Claudia messes with power grids.”

 

She fishes the Cup from the goo and sets it back on the shelf, grinning all the while. The Cup doesn't stay still on the shelf, would have rolled right off again if she wasn't there to catch it. It starts vibrating again, and she quickly puts it back in the vat of goo. The bottom, she notices with a sinking feeling in her stomach, is not flat, like it should be.

 

Her phone buzzes insistently.

 

_you should prob come back mykes and artie are both reaally mad and the lights are almost all back on we're still up 1-0 _tho_ hg wells face is priceless rn_

 

She breathes out carefully through her nose, and types _Be there soon_ with shaking fingers.

 

*

 

Claudia is the first to greet her back when she gets back to the bench, jersey half on, skates in hand. “So, _did_ it work?” she asks.

 

“I had to tell her,” Steve says from behind her. “Mostly because she's really annoying when she wants to be – which is all the time –”

 

“Hey!”

 

“But also because I couldn't think of another way to get you off the ice long enough to get the Carnival Cup.”

 

“Can I see it?” Claudia asks. “I mean, Steve's a terrible liar, so I know you're actually like, not our Abigail, but can I see it?”

 

“The Cup?” Abigail asks, dropping her skates next to her, and fixing her jersey.

 

“The Warehouse,” Claudia says, nearly bouncing in her seat. "Your Warehouse."

 

Abigail bites her lip, remembering the vanished aisles. The arena is steadily growing bigger, and the Warehouse – her Warehouse – is shrinking, and she doesn't know how to stop it.

 

“It didn't work.”

 

Steve frowns. “How come?”

 

She is in the middle of telling him that she doesn't know, when the lights come on full blast and the fans cheer. The speaker comes on, apologizing for the inconvenience, and assuring the crowd that the game will resume immediately.

 

Abigail gulps. Claudia and Steve smile sympathetically.

 

She skates out onto the ice and nearly crashes into her own net when she realizes the entire team is following her.

 

“This is a huddle,” Pete says, and gently maneuvers her so that she's facing the team, and the team is facing the net. “Here's the deal. I've been getting vibes off you all day, and you nearly just tripped over nothing skating out here.”

 

Abigail blushes; she'd hoped no one had been paying enough attention to see that.

 

Myka's next: “You've been off all day,” she says. “I know you hate practicing well before big games, weird goalie thing, I don't pretend to understand, but your form was _awful_ today. Even for a purposely bad practice."

 

Abigail takes a deep breath, looks at the concern on familiar faces hidden behind hockey helmets, and tells them what she told Steve.

 

*

 

“No,” Abigail says. “That's insane.”

 

Myka smiles wanly. “We're long past that point,” she says. “You just need to play twenty minutes, tops.”

 

Abigail shakes her head, clutches her stick tighter through unwieldy gloves as the referee calls for teams to wrap up their meetings. “I can't,” she says. “I – there's no way. I can't protect the net.”

 

“You won't have to,” Pete says.

 

Abigail bites her lip, and resolves once again to find the missing half of the Cup, and not just for her own sake, but for the sake of her team, looking at her with trust and resolve. They don't know the full story, but they're willing to put themselves on the line for her, and that's –

 

That's something.

 

“We'll up our defensive game, and keep the puck away from you,” Josh says.

 

“Well, not me,” Myka says. “Artie's benching me for the foreseeable future. I had to work just to let him come out here for the huddle. Don't worry,” she says, at Abigail's shocked look. “That gives me more than enough time to short out the power again.”

 

"I'll take your place," Josh says, and Myka turns to him in surprise.

 

"I – that's not how it works, Josh, but thank you."

 

"No," Josh insists. "Artie knows that one less defensemen is better than one less forward. And I can rewire power grids, easy. It runs in the family," he adds, with a grin at Claudia. Myka opens her mouth to protest, but Josh holds up a hand, and skates away. They watch as he speaks to Artie.

 

Abigail bites her lip again. She knows next to nothing about hockey, but she knows a little about Myka and it would kill her – hockey player Banger, not Agent Bering – to be unofficially suspended from games. And it would kill their playoff chances, if they lost their star center.

 

Abigail shakes her head, reminds herself that this isn't her truth, and fixes the image of the Warehouse as it should be in her head.

 

From the bench, Artie visibly harrumphs, and Josh gives them the thumbs up. Myka smiles, bright and relieved. 

 

"Let's do this, then," she says, and the team cheers.

 

Twenty minutes left to play.

 

*

 

Hockey is fast. And physical. An opposing player in green and grey – blond ponytail, number 9, Martin – knocks Pete off the puck and shoots it up around the boards to her teammate – black ponytail, number 17, Wells – who spins and heads straight for Abigail, seemingly unbothered by Steve and Josh, who are in hot pursuit. She gets as far as the blue line closest to Abigail before Claudia intercepts, does something complicated with her stick, and the next time Abigail blinks, the puck is hers, and the crowd is groaning.

 

One of the Coyotes lets out a growl Abigail can hear clear down the rink, and another, larger one, – number 3, Brunsky – slams Claudia against the boards. The crowd boos with one voice. Steve and Pete are there immediately, gloves dropped and snarling. Some of the Coyotes look taken aback by the strength of the body check, Brunsky included. He bends, speaks briefly to Claudia, then skates off. Another Coyote – number 17, Abigail notes, Wells, stops by as well, and is waved off by Claudia.

 

(Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a child in the bleacher excitedly hold up the puck that had flown over the protective netting.)

 

Abigail is pretty sure Wikipedia would call that a clean check, but Claudia's so small, compared to everyone else – she tamps down on the protectiveness and yells, “Get back in the game, Don!"

 

She stops abruptly. Did she just give Claudia a terrible hockey nickname? Is she becoming affected, too? Did she touch something? She gives herself a brief once-over to make sure she doesn't suddenly have a second head, or worse, an ability to play.

 

Claudia skates by, interrupting her train of thought and bumping Abigail's stick with her own. Abigail catches the corner of a smile as they move into a face-off.

 

Twelve minutes left to play.

 

*

 

One of the Coyotes takes exception to Steve brushing too close to one of the Coyotes' forwards, and rams him into the boards. Abigail nearly bites through her lip but dares to close her eyes, tries to access the Warehouse, tries to think of possible locations for the second part of the artifact, tries to breathe like Steve told her.

 

Eight minutes left to play.

 

*

 

Steve and Myka are caught up with Wells and another player whose number Abigail can't see, and she doesn't want to see because Brunksy is speeding towards her, far, far too fast. Claudia intercepts him halfway, and he lets up on the speed at the last second, barely grazes by Abigail, but Pete leaps for him, furious.

 

“Stay off my goalie, Brooner,” Pete shouts, and he gets in a good punch before the referee comes in, and shoos them off. Steve and Myka watch from some distance away, nearly trip Brunsky on his way back to his zone.

 

“Guys,” Abigail says, bemused. “I was fine.”

 

“Gotta protect our goalie,” Pete says, aiming a crooked smile at her.

 

“Always protect the goalie,” Claudia yells over her shoulder.

 

Abigail smiles and feels the Warehouse at the edge of her consciousness, focuses harder on it, tries for an image of the piece she needs.

 

Five minutes left to play.

 

*

 

There is a puck shot right at her and Abigail jumps for it instinctively, closes her hand around the glove and braces for impact with the Coyote going far too fast. She feels the cool spray of ice on her face instead, and opens her eyes to see Myka handily shoving the Coyote out of the way.

 

The lights go out (again), and Abigail nearly cheers out loud as she rushes off the ice.

 

*

Another four aisles in the Warehouse have been replaced with hockey equipment and Abigail can see her breath in the air as she peers under the shelves in Aisle Holden-89.

 

What could have made the two halves split off, Abigail wonders, jogging to the other end of the aisle. She knows the Carnival Cup is not a bifurcated artifact, so it must have broken sometime this morning. But why? And how, for that matter?

 

There's a rumbling noise, and Abigail grips a shelf tightly. She doesn't know what that sound was, and she's not sure she wants to find out.

 

She catches a glimpse of silver on the aisle across from her, and she runs.

 

*

 

You accepted the move to South Dakota, she reminds herself as her feet pound frantically against the floor of the Warehouse. You agreed to this, this is your responsibility. _You_ need to stop this from happening. She tears frantically down the aisles, clutching the bottom of the Carnival Cup under her arm.

 

Tibet-98 is only five aisles, and already the ice is catching up to her.

 

(Finding the other half of the artifact, as it turned out, had been the easy part.)

 

She wishes she'd kept the skates on, but she'd never imagined that the Warehouse would be this far gone, that ice would have replaced solid ground, that shelves containing multitudes of dangerous artifacts would repurpose themselves to become holders of banal ice hockey equipment.

 

It doesn't matter, she tells herself. You have the missing piece – “Just get to Tibet-98,” and hearing it out loud makes her that much faster.

 

She does. Somehow, miraculously, thankfully, she does; she reunites the pieces of the Carnival Cup and welcomes the blinding light.

 

*

 

“But where did those guys even come from?” Claudia asks, curled up on the couch. “I mean, I remember H.G., and Pete's ex-wife. And, I mean, _Josh_ was there – why did we call him Switzy? Because he lives in Switzerland? That's original.”

 

Something flickers in Myka's eyes, and she mentions quietly that they should call the former Coyotes, make sure that they're not weirdly displaced.

 

“But we were transported right back to the Warehouse, safe and sound,” Pete points out. “No souvenirs of our little trip.”

 

“Except this itchiness around my neck,” Artie grumbles. “It feels like I've been wearing a tie.”

 

Myka laughs at that, a quick huff of breath. “What even activated the artifact?”

 

“It was Canada Day yesterday,” Abigail says. “And I checked one of Saskatchewan's newspapers – apparently someone tried to steal the Stanley Cup from the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto. I guess the Carnival Cup got excited about it. Plus, you know. Canada.”

 

Claudia mouths an obscenity. “That – they take their ice hockey that seriously?”

 

Pete looks thoughtful. “Steve, remember when we went up to Canada during the 2010 Olympics? Almost everyone was decked out in ice hockey jerseys.”

 

“Host cities are always enthusiastic, Pete,” Myka replies, not looking up from her book.

 

“We were in rural Nova Scotia,” Steve says.

 

“ _Insane_ ,” Pete repeats, not without respect.

 

“Do any of you remember being really mad this one guy?” Steve asks.

 

“Sure do. The things we do to protect our goalie,” Pete says, with the same broad grin from the game.

 

“No,” Claudia corrects. “The things _you_ do because you have a ton of unresolved issues with Brooner – I mean, Ralph Brunsky.”

 

Abigail hides a grin behind her mug. Steve leans in close, knocks his shoulder with hers. “Who _is_ Broon – Brunsky?”

 

She stares for a bit – artifacts have side effects even after they're neutralized, but this new camaraderie, Abigail thinks, isn't so bad.

 

She explains, Myka assisting where there are blanks in her knowledge. Claudia and Pete continue debating the finer points of intention versus result, and Artie elects to do paperwork rather than get dragged into their discussion. (That doesn't last long, and cheerful ribbing rings loud into the evening.)

 

**Author's Note:**

> Your assignment was great! This is probably the last thing you envisioned! In my defence though, every fandom should have an hockey AU.
> 
> I know the Stanley Cup playoffs aren't in July, but Canada Day is, so. (Let's be real, though: if Canadians could watch hockey in July, we would watch hockey in July.) Also; there's no way that any NHL hockey team would have a choice between being down a defensemen or being down a forward because each team has like 20 people on the roster, but let's just roll with it.
> 
> Title from Muzzle of Bees by Wilco.


End file.
